I'll Love You When You're Ready
by sawbones romeo
Summary: Frustrated to breaking point over his lack of relationship with Tino, Berwald is appauled to find respite in the affections of his overly amorous son...WARNING: Consensual shota and adult themes. R&R is love.
1. Chapter 1

Ever since he could remember, Berwald had been a morning person. For centuries his sleeping habits had been regular enough to set a watch by - up at six, down at eleven for seven good solid hours of rest. So, when he spent his first night in over a hundred years staring at the same spot on the ceiling for six long hours and over-slept by three hours the next morning, he knew something as wrong. He'd never had much trouble sleeping before - his days were long and productive with rarely an idle moment, therefore sleep came easily to him as soon as his head hit the pillow. But then again, he'd never been in love before.

Berwald wasn't entirely sure when the trouble started again. His only warning was that first restless night, and then there came the gradual realisation that he was completely, singularly and terrifyingly in love. It crashed over him like a wave, leaving him soaked to the bone and more than a little confused. He'd loved Tino from the very moment he'd seen him of course, but it never occured to the older nation that it could ever be anything more than a selfish desire - that he could ever be [i]in[/i] love with him. For years Berwald has lusted, and Tino had violently spurred his advances time and time again until he simply stopped trying because it just hurt too much - his pride, his feelings, his body. They were closer now than they ever had been after a long peace, with a home and family and some sad little thing that was almost a working relationship, but the gap between them was still so entirely unbridgable in his eyes. They had lived together for so long that he'd gotten 'used to' being around him, and had came to accept that thing were just the way they were. However, his jarring revelation had turned everything on it's head. Not only were his nights suffering, but so were his days - he took less and less pleasure in his work, and frequently found himself doing absolutely nothing at all; wandering aimlessly, staring blankly, sighing heavily and other such cliches. To make matters worse, Tino had definitely noticed something was wrong. He had been constantly on edge since it had all began, just like the old days - mistaking unrequited love for something certainly more sinister even though he was quite sure Berwald would never hurt him again.

* * *

Bathed in midmorning light, peeling vegetables by the kitchen sink and humming quite happily to himself, Tino looked like some sort of domestic angel haloed by the sunshine in his white-blonde hair. In a dozen pots and pans - bright copper and stainless steel polished to perfection - his half smile and lidded eyes were reflected with the light that made shimmering patterns on the ceiling and walls. Berwald knew his position just beyond the door frame was as yet undiscovered because he never looked so contented when they were together, and took some small comfort in the peaceful countenance of his wife. He wanted him to be happy, he wanted the world for him, but did Tino even have a clue? A leaden weight settled itself firmly on his broad shoulders, and he slumped against the wall as though it was too much for him. Still blissfully unaware of his quietly adoring audience, Tino lay down his peeler and instead went to pick up a wicked looking vegetable knife and a scarred chopping board from the worktop to his left. Immediately Berwald ducked from plain view - not wanting to be caught lurking in what was probably a very (accidentally) frightening manner - but peering round the door frame once more, his breath caught in his throat at what grabbed his attention. Head bowed, an inch or two of sweet pale skin was invitingly uncovered from beneath his loose cotton collar and Berwald was captivated. His heart skipped a beat and ached for him to stride across the kitchen and brand it with his lips as his property - all his. He knew he could if he wanted to, and he might have all those years ago before his love had tempered his lust. He wouldn't be met with much if any resistance, not anymore; but nor would he be met with a laugh and a smile, or an arch into that light touch as a small hand found his and what was the point then? It would only be more trouble than either of them cared for. More trouble than it was worth. Berwald almost missed those days of raking nails, bitten lips and bloody curses spat in language more lyrical than his own.

He cursed and composed himself, cheeks threatening to burn with the shame of getting so excited by the mere sight of skin. He adjusted the collar of his blandly blue shirt and took a deep breath before stepping almost confidently into the kitchen. Immediately Tino spun around, perhaps a little too quickly to be casual, and smiled brightly.

"Oh, good morning Su-san. You're up late again," he chirped, homely calm scattered to the wind. He moved to the stove-top with a bowl in his hand, and ladeled a generous portion of oatmeal into it before setting it down on the table, "Now, I didn't add salt to it this morning so you can have it with honey and milk for a change, if you would like."

"'S fine," came the grunted reply as Berwald pulled the bowl towards him and took the spoon that was presented with it.

"There's also some bilberries too, I picked them yesterday. They're not quite ripe yet but I'm sure with a little bit of h-"

"'S fine. Th'nk y'."

"Ah. Okay then. If you need anything..."

Berwald met his wife's expectant gaze as he took a large spoonful of oatmeal, as though to emphasize his point. Tino nodded once, and reluctantly turned back to preparing lunch now that he had been assured all was well with breakfast. Of course, without salt or milk or any other luxury it was little more than thick gruel but Berwald didn't care. It was delicious in it's own way. Delicious in Tino's way. He carefully took another spoonful, staring at the rim of the simple bowl to avoid staring at the bow of the simple apron, resting on the small of the other nation's back. Berwald cleared his throat slightly, making Tino look sharply over his shoulder.

"Where's P'ter?" he asked, half to break the silence and half because he genuinely hadn't seen any sign of his son that morning.

"Oh yes, sorry, I forgot to mention that he's staying with Raivis tonight."

"Hm?"

"I-is that okay? He asked this morning while you were still sleeping, and I didn't want to disturb you..."

"Fine b'me," Berwald said with a shrug, smoothing the worried frown from Tino's brow. He was more concerned with how he fretted over something as simple as asking his permission when he was the boy's 'mother' after all. Still, there was a little movement in his wife's deliciate hands that told him that wasn't all that was troubling him. He sat his spoon down gently, "S'methin' wrong?"

"Oh! It's nothing, really..." he said at once, with a dismissive wave of his hand. However, he quickly wilted under Berwald's steady gaze, "It's just - well, it's just I'm a little bit worried."

"..."

"I mean, Peter's only young and so are Raivis and Eduard and - and what if something were to happen? After all, they are so close to Russia, and you know what he's like especally now Toris has left them. I-I should call him, tell him to come home for dinner or something..."

"It'll b'okay," Berwald said reassuringly, knowing full well that Tino's worries were well founded but couldn't stand to see him so distressed, "P'ter's a clever boy, 'nd Ravis 'nd Eduard're good 'nd kind. He's m'kin' new friends, he needs that. R'member, they're j'st across th' water. He'll b'fine, I promise."

"You're probably right. Yes, yes, Eduard is very trustworthy. Oh Su-san - I just can't help but worry about him sometimes, he's so small..."

"He's tougher th'n you or me anyway," he said, but his wife didn't look any happier. Tears pricked those bright eyes, and a pain twinged deep in his chest at the sight of them. He wished that he could have scooped him up and simply kissed away his concerns rather than fumbling with ungainly, clumsy words but once again he swallowed down his surging emotions with another spoonful of hot plain oatmeal. Tino blinked back the threat of tears and took a deep breath to regain composure, his small hands twisting fretfully in the clean white linen of his neat apron.

"I'm making köttsoppa for lunch," he said levelly - almost brightly again - as he turned back to his chopping board. Berwald nodded even though he couldn't be seen and wolfed down the last of his breakfast. He was certain it would be absolutely delicious as always but the less time he spent with Tino at that moment, the better. He stood quickly and excused himself before swiftly making his escape. "Yes, I think those bilberries will make a lovely blåbärssoppa."

Berwald's step faultered at the door, just by the place he had been hiding before. He turned and stared at the narrow back of his spouse feeling desperately torn. He groped for something to do, anything short of ordering Peter home.

"I'll...I'll go phone Toris 'n' Feliks. Ask 'em to keep an eye 'n the boys. That'll be enough."


	2. Chapter 2

With leadened limbs, Berwald climbed the wooden stairs to the top floor of their cosy little house. He walked right past the first door to the one at the far end of the hallway, into a small room that was cold and bare but clean. In it, there were two single beds, a bedside table and a lamp - the guest bedroom. He lit the lamp and shed his clothes before falling gracelessly into whichever bed was closest, feeling exhausted but wide awake. He predicted that once again sleep was not going to come easily and could already feel his thoughts starting to tick over as he frowned at the ceiling. It had been a pleasant enough day in it's own new awkward way. After breakfast Berwald had thrown himself headfirst into a pile of paperwork and by lunchtime had finished all of it - even the stuff that didn't require his attention at all. Lunch itself was just as delicious as as he had predicted, and the stilted small talk about the economy as he desperately avoided eye contact could have been worse. After hurriedly clearing the table Berwald had locked himself in his workshop, industiously making more minimalistic furniture to fill up their already too-full storage. When he reappeared hours later sore-backed and red-eyed, he found a note on the kitchen table, telling him his dinner was in the oven to keep it warm. A hot fluttering feeling had burst inside him then, and it was all he could do to stop himself crying out of sheer frustration.

Berwald rolled onto his side. His glasses pressed uncomfortably into his face but he didn't care. He stared at the soft glow of a light from downstairs intruding beneath his door letting him know that Tino was still awake and probably would be for some time. Voices and the sound of laughter followed the light to intrude on his peace and he pressed his face further into the pillow. He was probably watching TV, or maybe he was on the phone to Jökull again. Or Lars, god curse that pastry eating moron. He could always make him laugh. Restlessly Berwald rolled onto his otherside so he was facing way from the light and wondered if Tino would be in bed already if he knew he would be sleeping alone tonight. He just couldn't bring himself to spend another night in such a cold bed, as far away for the other nation as possible without being on the floor. Heaven forbid he should accidentally roll over and throw a sleepy arm around the fitfully slumbering young man. Tino was always such a light sleeper - would a kiss wake him up? Not on the lips. The cheek maybe, or throat laid bare by tossing and turning. Yes, it probably would wake him up. Berwald could imagine those violet eyes wide and wild in the dark - didn't have to imagine, he'd seen it a dozen times before in their early years of their tentative time together when neither trusted the other enough to sleep through every bump in the night. He had given him enough cause to be scared of the dark before they became man and wife, and even after too. Sometimes Berwald couldn't help himself, conditioned by centuries of pilaging freely and that's why he couldn't trust himself around Tino anymore. Oh, how easy it would be to invade now with bodies softened and weapons blunted by an age of peace and prosperity, how sweet to raise the old standard again.

Already Berwald was palming himself gently, half-hard and only getting harder as one hand gripped himself firmly and the other twisted in the sheets by his side. He had burned for Tino for as long as he could remember and was reduced to stroking himself with increasing urgency alone in the guest bedroom. He had only just begun, but already his breath was coming in light pants. He closed his eyes and imagined that it wasn't his hand, large and work-calloused but small and pale and almost delicate instead. Slowing down he loosened his grip, teasing himself with the slightest twist of his wrist and lightly brushing his thumb across the head with each stroke. A small groan escaped his lips. Yes, he wanted Tino's body - so lithe and so beautiful - more than he could ever say, almost as much as he wanted all the warm in that smile just for him. To melt away years of ice and uncertainty, there wasn't anything in the world he wouldn't give for just one hot kiss. Berwald's toes curled, and his knees jerked a little closer to his chest as he curled in on himself. His pace increased once more, and he tried to muffle his quiet sounds of pleasure with his free hand. _It's all for you_, he though, feeling the pleasure jolt though his body like electricity, _Tino, oh god, it's all for you...fuck, I'm so close, Tino - Tino, I'm going t--_

"...Papa?"

Berwald felt the matress dip behind him before he even registered the small voice, filled with uncertainty. Imidiately he stopped with every nerve in his body screaming at him to just keep going, and slowly half rolled over. His face was flushed and his shoulders were shaking slightly. He was even a little out of breath. Peter was kneeling on the edge of his bed in his pyjamas, looking worried.

"Are you okay, pa?"

For a moment Berwald was at a loss for words to say. His mind was struggling to recover, but he was singularily aware that his young son had just walk in on his furiously masturbating. He prayed to god that the boy was still too young to figure out what he was doing.

"'M fine. Bad dream," he grunted dismissively. He rolled over properly and Peter seemed to take this as a sign to climb onto the bed properly. Berwald was thankful the heavy blankets were thick enough to hide his stubborn errection, "What're y'doin' home? Thought y'were at Raivis's house?"

"I was," he said bluntly as he wriggled to mold himself comfortably to his father's side, "But I had to come home, Ed said so."

"What happen'd," Berwald pressed, concern creeping into his voice as he arched his hips subtly away from Peter. Usually it was a task just getting the boy to breathe in between his epic tales of every single minute detail of an evening with his friends. He wasn't usually so clingy either. For a moment the micronation didn't say anything, he smooth little brow creased in thought. He grabbed Berwald's arm and tugged it around him.

"Well me an' Raivis were upstairs, an' Ed an' Toris an' Feliks were in the kitchen an' then...an' then stupid Russia showed up, an' Feliks starts going crazy! He was shoutin', Russia was smashin' stuff about, Toris was tryin' to make the stupid git go away, an' then Ed bursts into our room, says me and Raivis have gotter go, so we did," he said all in one breath, a little more like his usual self. He paused, and looked away before adding sadly, "Raivis was cryin'. They didn't say where they were gonna go."

Berwald wasn't really sure what to say at that moment as he held his son close to him. A small hand reassuringly squeezed his arm that was tensed in anger, and he forced himself to relax - more successfully than his previous attempt which his body was thankfully beginning to obey. Berwald dipped his head until his lips brushed against Peter's sandy blond hair, curling himself protectively around his beloved son. He smelled of the ocean, of salt and iron and rust.

"Did y'tell Ma?" he mumbled as the yeilding body in his arms melted gladly in the comforting heat. Peter shook his head almost imperceptably, and Berwald made a slight noise of agreement, "It's prob'ly best y'didn't. Not worry him 'nd so on."

After that, Peter didn't say much more. He appeared to have fallen asleep, one hand grasping Berwald's bicep gently, the other crushed between them with the thumb pressed against pursed rosebud lips. Thumb sucking. It was one of many childish habits that the micronation still retained that neither doting parent could bring themselves to break, weakly trying to disuade him with disapproving _tsks_ and vaguely smitten smiles. He stroked the soft blond hair, pale in the lack of light. Peter stirred, looking up with hazy sea-blue eyes, and smiled. There was hidden strength in those young eyes, so familiar, and a warmth that served only as a painful reminder. Once again, he and his son settled down to sleep, chest to chest and lazily entwined. The warm little puffs of breath against his bare skin made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"I'm gonna build us a house one day," came a slightly muffled sleepy voice, and Berwald opened his eyes again, "When I'm the biggest nation in the whole world. A house from me an' you an' Mama. Raivis can come, an' his brothers an' Feliks if he wants to, an' Gilbo an' Noemi if their brothers would let them, an' even stupid gitface if he's dead sorry 'bout being a stupid gitface."

"That so," Berwald hummed in responce, the slightest little smile playing at the corners of his thin, serious lips.

"Yeah," he said, nodding and even though he was on the verge of sleep he was unable to stop the childish enthusiasm radiating in his voice, "An' if Russia tries anythin', I'm gonna Rocket Punch him right in the nose!"

Both nations chuckled, the relaxed sound ushering away any remaining concerns of the day. It was nice to simply be with each other - happily, unconditionally. Berwald smoothed back a few wayward locks from Peter's young face, and smiled truely.

"Go t'sleep now, P'ter," he urged as he pressed another kiss the the crown of his son's head. Peter nodded again, pulling the heavy blankets closer about them and whispering something that sounded like 'I love you'. With the litle lamp still on, they both slept soundly.

* * *

AN: Jökull = Iceland, Lars = Denmark, Noemi = Liechtenstein


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning it was Berwald who had awoken first, feeling more refreshed than he had in weeks. It was difficult climbing out of bed without waking Peter, but he managed it and gave the slumbering boy a grateful peck on his forehead. The master bedroom was predictably empty, the inviting bed neatly made and the thick curtains thrown back to let the sun dazzle. Berwald's toes curled in the cold, digging into the thick shag of the cream carpet as he dressed hurriedly. A charcoal grey suit, fresh and neatly pressed, was laid out on the bed, reminding him they had a conference that afternoon. Thoughfully, he fingered the subtle golden buttons on the cuffs and smiled softly. It was his favourite suit.

Tino was not in the kitchen as Berwald had expected him to be, but the table was laid with various delicious things for breakfast. There was some pillowy sweet bread - still slightly warm from the local bakery - with jam, honey and chocolate spread to slather it with, and a platter of fresh fruit. He ate slowly, enjoying his quiet meal alone where he could finally relax without his wife around to unintentionally wind him up. It was probably the first breakfast he had properly savoured in quite a while. Sipping his luke-warm mug of cocoa, a distant rumbling on the wooden staircase warned him his peace was going to be short-lived.

"Mornin' Papa," Peter chirped in an absolutely-not-appropriate-for-that-time-in-the-morning voice as he practically bounced into kitchen. Berwald merely grimaced in return, his eyes narrowing as he studied what his son was wearing; his special sailor suit, un-ironed and complete with juice stain.

"Where d'y'think y're goin' dressed like that?" he asked over the brim of his heavy mug. Immediately Peter's expression soured.

"Oh Pa, _please!"_ he whined nasally as he grabbed at a carton of fresh orange juice, "I have to come! I have to!"

"No y'don't," Berwald said firmly. The powerful puppy eyes he was recieving from across the table done nothing to weaken his resolve, as painfully cute as they were, "The UN is for United _Nations_ only."

"But how am I gonna become a real nation one day if I can't go to the meetings," was the familar reply, genuine disappointment masking the indignant defiance in his son's voice. Berwald frowned slightly, and reached over the able to take ahold of a small fisted hand.

"We'll find a way, you'll see," he said kindly, sharing a warm smile as Peter reluctantly perked up again. There was no keeping the boy down, as much as he tried to maintain his sullen pout. It didn't suit him, "Now y'should go 'nd get changed out of that before y'r Ma sees."

Peter nodded, excusing himself from the table and running from the room. The threat of Tino's displeasure was enough to make even the boldest nation flee in fear. He could be ferocious when the time called for it, something that Berwald admired deeply. Tino, little Tino - and Jökull too, so cold, so hot. Probably why they got on so well, on the phone every other night for hours on end. What did they have to talk about? It wasn't as though they had any international relations of pressing importance between each other, or any relations at all for that matter. He was supposed to be with Morten anyway, after things with idiot Lars had went sour. What did he want with Tino? Berwald stood, crossing to the sink with his dirty plate as jealousy prickled up his spine. He tried to push thoughts of Iceland and his wife to the back of his mind as he washed the plain white porclain gently - but it was still there, sulky and poisonous, sullying his good mood. He knew it wasn't his place to say who he should or shouldn't see, or that in an ideal world he would be happy just to see him happy, but it didn't work that way. It couldn't, it never would. Tino was _his wife_, and that was that. No-one dared say otherwise, it was practically written in stone. Sweden and Finland, always Sweden and Finland. Everyone could see that - _everyone but the one person that mattered most!_

Berwald exhaled shakily. His knuckles were white with the force he had been gripping the delicate porclain plate, and it was a miracle it had not snapped in two. He sat it down guiltily on the drying rack, and wiped his hands with a near-by dish cloth before checking his watch. They would be leaving in less than an hour, and Tino was still not around. He had probably forgotten something at the market, Berwald mused. Something nice for dinner. He always liked to make them something a little bit special after a hard day's work.

---

The conference had been remarkably unremarkable. No spontanious wars, amazingly few gropings (accidental or other-wise), no full frontal nudity and everyone left with all vital regions intact. America acted the idiot, England cursed and ranted, Germany shouted at his Italy and was shouted at by Southern Italy in return, France leered and Russia creeped. Everything went accordingly - though progress was as arduous and slow as ever - and when four o'clock rolled around everyone went their seperate ways, tired and slightly irratable. It was a good day.

Berwald felt slightly claustrophobic in his little racing green Saab 93, but it was a sturdy car and got him from a to b in _relative_ comfort and style. Tino fit quite neatly into the passenger seat, smart in his beautifully tailored black suit and playful pink tie. His hands were clasped in his lap, and he was staring vacantly at the flashing scenery with the slightest purse in his sweet lips. Berwald didn't bother to ask. He'd been fairly absent all day, and despite his husbads best efforts he insisted nothing was wrong. The small talk between them had dried up twenty minutes into their long drive home, and now he was more concern on trying to focus on the road and not the nation beside him. They had to drop by little Viveka's house to pick up Peter, and they wouldn't be home for hours yet.

"Prussia spoke to me at the interval when I went to fetch us coffee," Tino said quite suddenly in a flat tone that made Berwald wish for the stuffy silence again.

"That so," Berwald hummed, trying to sound casual, "What was he sayin'?"

"He wanted to know where Peter was."

Berwald's hands tensed slightly on the steering wheel. There was ice creeping into that voice. Peter must have promised Gilbert to see him at the next meeting, not counting on his father putting his foot down quite so firmly. Despite the large age gap, Gilbert was probably the closest thing to a boy his own age for Peter. Im Yong Soo refused to recognise him, Noemi was hardly ever let out of her brother's sight and even though Raivis might have been his best friend, he was still a complete wet blanket. However, the sea fort and the ex-nation got on like a house on fire; united by a lack of status and a love of explosions, giant robots and cowboys. It was almost sweet.

"Why does he want to know where Peter is?" Tino pressed on, apparently undetered by Berwald's lack of reply, "Why is he allowed to attend UN meetings anyway? He's not even a country any more, he hasn't been for more than sixty years!"

"He's part of Germany."

"Then what's wrong with Ludwig representing him?"

"They're brothers, Tino. He wouldn't dissolve him completely like that."

"He should," Berwald was taken back by the venom spat in those two words, and frowned slightly, "I don't like him, Su-san. I don't like him, and I don't want him sniffing around around Peter."

"They're friends, Tino. There's nothin' wrong w'that."

"Nothing wrong with that!" came the disbelieving squawk, "There's nothing _right_ about it! He's a brute, a hooligan and a bad influence for a start, nevermind the fact he's even older than me."

"He's harmless now, 'm sure..."

"No, Berwald. _I don't want that relic anywhere near our child_."

Berwald opened his mouth to object, but faultered. _Our child._ Their child. A child they had together, raised together for a little while, brought into their lives with love and trust. His heart fluttered uncomfortably, and he nodded mutely. There was no point in arguing.

"I'll talk t'the boy."

* * *

AN: Viveka = Aaland Island, Morten = Norway


	4. Chapter 4

Oh hey, so I'm not dead. Enjoy the new chapter, it's pretty OOC and over the top, but you should know that's how I roll by now

* * *

By the time they eventually reached home it was nearly eight o'clock, and a bloody sunset splashed the snowy landscape with a bouquet of reds and oranges. Peter was as quiet as he ever was after spending time with Viveka and both nations knew that being with his sister was hard for him, his admiration for her independence clashing with the usual jealousy between step-siblings. Berwald ushered his family into the house and out of the cold, sharing appreciative murmurs at the waves of warmth that greeted them as they shed shoes and overcoats (and in one case, a woollen bobble hat) in the hallway. As he had already eaten that evening, the young principality was sent upstairs for his bath. He ducked away from Berwald's hair ruffle but went with minimal petulance, two steps at a time. Hungry and happy to be home, the older nations swept through into the kitchen.

With heads throbbing and stomachs rumbling, they came to the mutual agreement that they would dine on yesterday's leftovers for convenience and compensate with something delicious for dessert. As he pulled out various tupperware containers from the refrigerator and Tino rattled through the cupboards looking for his trusty old mixing bowl, Berwald couldn't help but notice the atmosphere between them was relaxed - almost pleasant - as though they were too tired after a long day's hard work to be tense and suspicious. Immediately he tried to push this thought to the side, afraid his realization might suddenly ruin it like touching the most delicate soap bubble. That night, of all nights, he just wanted some peace and quiet.

The meal passed with the same well practiced routine that comes with years of companionship: the designated chairs; picking at the other's plate; not having to ask what they wanted to drink. It was the same as every other meal, with a smattering of small talk about the day's events and Berwald trying not to stare at Tino by avoiding eye-contact altogether. Despite his earlier hunger, he found himself doing little more than pushing his food round his plate and Tino pretended not to notice as he stood to clear the dishes from the table.

"I was thinking of making morotskaka for dessert," he mused as he deposited the dirty dishes into the sink to be washed later, "We don't have any currants but that's not a problem, is it?"

Berwald shook his head once, thumbing the edge of his glass. He could feel the familiar tension collecting in his shoulders, the stirring of urges he had managed to put aside for the day.

"'S fine. Don't care f'r curr'nts much."

"Ah, I thought you didn't," Tino hummed with a knowing smile and slipped his apron over his bowed head. He struggled to tie it securely behind him, and when Berwald tentatively moved to help him he sidestepped away, "No, no, you sit down - I've got it."

And so Berwald did sit down, left to feel excluded and yet curiously in the way as Tino became a whirlwind of neat activity, pulling ingredients from every cupboard and brandishing his wooden spoon like a magic wand. He measured by eye, estimating, approximating, never needing anything as troublesome as a recipe or scales. Cook with love, he had once told Peter, and it will be delicious no matter what. Berwald smiled secretly to himself as flour gently settled on the counter top like the finest powdered snow. Tino was the best cook he knew.

"Berwald," came Tino's soft voice, sifting into his consciousness in a way that made the back of his neck prickle. He snapped to attention, sitting up in his chair as his name hung in the air between them suggestively. His wife turned to smile over his neat shoulder at him, "Could you pass me two eggs from the refrigerator please?"

He nodded once, got to his feet and tried not to let his disappointment show as he pulled the fridge door open to find the eggs. He felt like he was hanging from a piece of string, being tugged up and down like a yo-yo. Of course it wasn't Tino's fault - he surely didn't even know what he was doing to Berwald. Those warm smiles, the moments when his hidden strengths shone through, they way he just _knew_ - what to do, what to say, all the little things to brighten someone's day. The way he loved Peter like his own son, but could not bring himself to love Berwald like the spouse their family needed. No, he did not realize the impact of just being _Tino_ and it drove Berwald to the edge of madness. He told himself time and time again that if it was not for Peter he might have left years ago to save himself the trouble, but he knew it was a lie. Economical implications aside, he knew he could never bring himself to leave the life he had now, no matter how difficult it seemed. Family, friends, a home; he couldn't throw it all away because he was pining like a lovesick puppy for something that he couldn't have because of his own petulance and avarice centuries ago. He had to pull himself together, he simply had to.

"Earth to Berwald," came the jovial reminder that he had been staring vacantly at a bag of sliced carrots for thirty seconds. For a moment he looked vaguely confused, before he remembered that he was supposed to be fetching eggs for the cake. He grabbed two from the box, shut the door a little harder than it really needed, and held them out to Tino at arm's length.

"Is there something on your mind?" he asked as he stepped forward to take them with the slightest concerned frown weighing his brow. Berwald said nothing, merely looked away with a non-committal grunt. Tino sighed and as he reached for the eggs, their fingers brushed and Berwald jumped as though he had been scalded. The eggs slipped from their grasp, and landed with a sickening splat on the kitchen floor. Immediately, both nations dropped down in a fumble to clean it; Berwald picking at shattered shells with his face pale and drawn, Tino muttering curses as he tried to mop up the sloppy mess of yolks with his flour streaked apron.

"It's fine, it's fine," Tino said dismissively, swatting away Berwald's helping hands. He tried for a few more moments to clean it up before he stopped, realizing he was simply making a mess of both his apron and the floor. He sighed quietly, and glanced up at Berwald with a tight smile.

"I've noticed you haven't been yourself lately," he admitted, and Berwald cursed every ounce of sincerity in those pale and pretty eyes as his heartbeat hitched uncomfortably, "Is everything okay?"

Berwald turned his head pointedly to the side, words dying on his lips as he tried to say something, anything, to reassure Tino that he was not slowly going crazy for him. Still on his knees, he shifted stiffly, and nodded jerkily. _Please just go back to baking_, he wanted to cry, _go back to baking or small talk or anything that isn't this!_

"'M f'ne."

"Berwald, _please_," Tino pressed, frustration colouring his plea as he leaned forward to search that troubled face for a tell-tale sign. After a moment, his expression softened slightly, "Is everything okay...with us?"

Face colouring brightly, Berwald could not bring himself to meet his wife's imploring gaze. His stomach plummeted like a stone. Tino wasn't stupid. All he had to do was put two and two together; the odd behaviour, the tension, the restlessness - it had been so obvious, and now he knew. Christ, of course he knew, the whole damn world did. Even Peter probably knew. The sharp ache in his head increased tenfold. He desperately wanted to get out of there but he was stuck between Tino and the fridge, and he didn't know if he could bare to move for fear of what might happen.

"Need t'go," he murmured, trying to shuffle away from the kneeling figure before him. There was a noise of protest, and a delicate hand grabbed his bony wrist to stop him as Tino moved to block his path.

"We need to talk about this, Berwald."

Berwald didn't know what to do. He was trapped, with skin on skin and _that voice_ saying his name and he was weak, so weak as as he wrenched his arm from Tino, crushing the smaller nation's sholder in a bruising grip as he pinned him back onto the filthy floor. Laid out like that, their faces were so close that he could feel the hot breath coming in short puffs against parted lips, count each silvery blonde lash that was splayed across pale cheeks as Tino stared wide-eyed and tight lipped up at him. He could feel his body heat coming of him in waves and smell the delicate scent of baking that seemed to permeate from his entire, undercut with a gun metal sharpness that shouldn't have been so alluring. Berwald loosened his grip as he studied the blank face mere inches from his own, surpressing a shiver at the sick pleasure he got knowing that the marks would still be there tomorrow. His hands, knuckles white from such a grip, slid across Tino's collar bones to his exposed neck where his thumbs pressed gently into the soft flesh below the hinge of his jaw.

"Berwald, please," said the smaller nation quietly, a warning rather than a plea. The hands around his throat tensed, pressure increasing for a second before letting go. Something like a sob escaped from Berwald, stiffled and shaken.

"Need t'go," he repeated again, his voice barely more than a mumble, and as quick as he had thrown himself at Tino, he had fled from the kitchen.

* * *

Okay, first of all, I'm not even going to try and apologize for the obscene amount of time this took to write thus leaving you hanging. Second of all, I promise there's going to be a _lot_ more Sealand in the next chapter. Thirdly, I guess I'll be finally wrapping this up in the next couple chapters. Would you prefer Good End, Bad End, or both?

Also, thank you and much love to all the watchers and favourites and reviews. You folk are the best. 3


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